


i can think of something better

by blanchtt



Category: The Proposal (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Gender or Sex Swap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 07:31:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15836637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanchtt/pseuds/blanchtt
Summary: A little over twenty-four hours later and Margaret wonders what she’s done to deserve this.(Lots of things, probably.)





	i can think of something better

**Author's Note:**

> Five scenes from [The Proposal AU](http://louisemiller.tumblr.com/post/177457981982/a-now-ask-me-nicely-m-ask-you-nicely-what) where Margaret's assistant is Andrea Paxton. 
> 
> The line about being allergic to pine nuts plus [this pic of Sandra](https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/489625790709197202/?lp=true) lead to this idea.

 

 

 

 

 

The reception is always mixed.

 

Employees scatter like a flock of birds as she walks in, dispersing to their desks and offices, heads flicking down, papers shuffling, typing away at keyboards, trying to look busy as she pushes open the glass door and makes her way to her office. But she knows that Gunner, black service lab trotting on his leash besides her, turns heads every time, doesn’t miss the smiles people give a _dog_ that they don’t give her.

 

Margaret’s gotten over the sting of that long ago. There’s no room for emotions here.

 

She nods briefly to Andrea sitting at the desk outside her office, pushes the door open and lets herself in. Andrea follows before the heavy glass door can close, a coffee in hand that Margaret takes once she’s set her bag on her desk, let go of Gunner’s leash, and sat down.

 

Andrea rattles off her schedule, which Margaret pays moderate attention to as she turns the coffee cup around in her hands, moves the open tab towards herself to take a sip and notices a handwritten message on the paper cup, scrawled in the white space around the Starbucks logo.

 

“Who’s Jill?” she asks, amused at the Sharpied hearts that accompany Andrea’s name and, she can only assume, Jill’s phone number.

 

Andrea stops speaking at that, turns pink and stammers a reply, which would be more endearing if she didn’t have eighty other things to do this morning than think quite suddenly about how long it’s been since she’s gotten laid. She hates Jill, Margaret decides.

 

“Forget it,” Margaret says with a dismissive wave of her free hand, and turns in her chair with the push of a high-heeled foot against the carpet.

 

It’s a clear sign she doesn’t want to be bothered until her meeting at nine, and she hears Andrea leave, the glass door shutting behind her. Margaret takes another sip of her coffee, looks down at Gunner who lies at her feet, staring up at her.

 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Margaret admonishes quietly, and gets to work.

 

She’s not a monster though, so she writes down the number on a Post-It note before she throws the cup away, gets up to head to Bob’s office, and hands it wordlessly to Andrea as they walk over together.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

A little over twenty-four hours later and Margaret wonders what she’s done to deserve this.

 

(Lots of things, probably.)

 

Sitka is cold as hell, but Andrea’s demeanor is not. Maybe it’s the promise of the title of editor. Maybe it’s her nature. Either way, Margaret almost slips on the way down the dock to the boat and feels Andrea grasp her elbow just in time, helping her up.

 

“I’m fine,” Margaret says, more to herself than anyone else, and Andrea says nothing, only lets her grip loosen and shift, holding onto her hand like a gentleman as they reach the dock and Margaret gets onto the unsteady boat, Gunner hopping in after her and settling at her feet. She definitely should have worn better shoes and warmer clothes.

 

“Careful,” Andrea’s grandmother says as she sways with the movement of the boat, Andrea’s mother driving it, and Andrea fishes a bright orange life vest out from under a seat, hands it to her and then with a laugh helps her into it.

 

The ride to the Paxton’s home is surprisingly smooth, and Margaret fields the questions the two older women ask her as best she can, Andrea adding tidbits where appropriate. It’s surprisingly easier than she thought it would be, and Margaret feels just a sliver of stress dissipate—this won’t be a total disaster. She can marry Andrea, make her editor, and in a few years, divorce without consequence.

 

She’s in high spirits by the time they reach the Paxton’s home, and Margaret finds that Andrea’s extended family’s reception is warm as well, from her grandmother and mother having waited at the airport for them to the party that’s now being thrown at her parents’ surprisingly lavish home.

 

It’s slightly warmer inside, thank God, and Margaret finds that Andrea’s arm around her waist is not nearly as unsettling as it should be—the other woman’s arm urges her close, as natural as can be, and Margaret folds against her. For warmth, she tells herself, because she’s the only one in a dress more fit for a board meeting in an air conditioned office, while all the other woman in attendance have more wisely chosen thick-knit sweaters and pants for the occasion.

 

In the midst of mingling Andrea excuses herself, steps away for a minute, Andrea’s hand brushing the small of her back as she disentangles herself, and Margaret puts on a smile, lays a hand on Gunner’s head, sitting patiently beside her, as she talks to some cousin or other until Andrea returns.

 

“No peanuts,” Andrea says, returning with a plate of cheese and smoked salmon, which Margaret can only imagine tastes like heaven if it’s local. Andrea smiles lightly, offers it up to her, and it’s a startling change to see, this Andrea outside of work. “I triple-checked.”

 

Margaret takes the plate and can’t help but smile as Andrea reaches out, grabs a square of cheese off it, and pops it in her mouth before resuming her position, arm around her waist, as they chit-chat with the rest of the guests.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

Andrea chops wood with surprisingly efficacy.

 

From the few conversations they’ve been able to fit in about hobbies and preferences for their upcoming interview, she guesses it’s the CrossFit. But also probably anger at her father now, too.

 

Margaret makes her way down the grassy slope of the yard, Gunner following at her heels, and stops a few feet away from Andrea and angles her way into her line of sight so as not to surprise her. Andrea only looks up briefly mid-swing, eyes flicking toward her and then back down at her work, axe coming down on a chunk of wood, and Margaret tentatively closes the last few steps between them, stands at arms-length from her.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“Peachy,” Andrea replies tersely, and then a pained look flashes over her face. “Sorry,” Andrea corrects herself, and looks up to give Margaret am obviously forced smile. “I’m fine.”

 

Andrea is a terrible liar. She might not get _this_ , exactly, but they’re not quite as different as Andrea might think they are.

 

“I was so busy dealing with this utterly ridiculous, life-threatening allergy,” Margaret starts, hands clasped lightly in front of her and fiddling with her ring, and Andrea stops swinging, stands up straight and faces her. Margaret takes a breath, eyes flicking away from Andrea in her jacket and flannel and corduroys and boots and out towards the water, because that is far less dangerous right now. “It takes over everything, even now, and I never really had time to think about anything else, like who I wanted to be with. I like to think my parents would have supported me regardless, even if I never got to tell them.”

 

Andrea puts down her axe, letting it drop to the ground, sighing and shoulders slumping as if the tension has just physically run off of her, and Margaret steps closer, feels arms welcome her.

 

“I can’t say I know what you’re feeling,” Margaret says, trailing off. Emoting has never been her thing—never has been something she’s been allowed to do, certainly not as the first female editor in chief of one of the biggest publishing houses in the industry. She lets the rest out in a rush, pushes it out. “But I’m there for you.”

 

It’s the lack of access to the internet which must be driving her slowly insane. It’s the impending deportation and keeping her job and the all stress that comes along with it. It’s the fact that she has to give a little, somewhere, something, for this all to work.

 

But really, it might just be the way Andrea smells like some Old Spice scent, along with the leather of her bomber jacket and some sharp tang of the Alaskan cold, and Margaret tilts her head up, meets the hands that cup her jaw as they kiss.

 

It should hardly surprise her that Andrea’s good at this. Andrea’s been good at everything she’s thrown at her so far, professional or otherwise. Margaret parts her lips, lets her nails prick just a tad against the nape of Andrea’s neck as she urges her closer, and there is Andrea’s tongue in her mouth and her hand on her ass, squeezing, and everything is warm and thrumming and she’s getting lightheaded from it all, still manages to file away the little facts she’s learning for later though.

 

Margaret sinks down onto the lawn, hands tugging at Andrea’s shoulders, feels Andrea follow her, and her heart skips a beat, kiss-addled brain with only one thing in mind.

 

But Andrea eases her onto the grass and then settles next to her, breathing out hard through her nose, and they sit side by side, looking out at the bay, and Margaret takes everything it and puts it away and collects herself, knows _someone’s_ probably watching from the windows because Andrea’s family is nice but _nosy_.

 

“I kissed my first girl when I was seventeen. It was terrible, but I loved it. She broke my heart a month later by going out with Austin Everts,” Margaret begins, lets Gunner approach and lay down and place his head in her lap. She scratches behind his ear absently. “There are two EpiPens in my purse at all times. I found out I was allergic when I was about two. I’ve had service dogs ever since, since it could be fatal. If anything happens, give me the Epi and call 911 immediately.”

 

“I know. I’ve read up on it,” Andrea says, and Margaret looks sideways, sees that Andrea is smiling again, a real one, and reaches up, runs a hand through her hair. “I’ve been your assistant for almost four years.”

 

“Good,” Margaret says, and then more softly, “Thank you.”

 

Andrea shifts closer, and there is an arm around her shoulders again, which Margaret is quickly getting used to.

 

“My favorite color is pine green,” Andrea shares, and Margaret laughs.

 

“Not surprising.”

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

There is a pleasant dinner and drinks and then they retire to their room, Gunner sleeping curled up with Samwise in the living room, because there is their fake wedding tomorrow afternoon, and what has she done to deserve this, Margaret thinks once again.

 

Andrea’s mouth works what is sure to be a hickey that will be hell to cover tomorrow against the curve of her neck, teeth and tongue in equal measure, and Margaret holds in a moan, only clutches tighter at Andrea’s rock-hard bicep as she holds herself over her, ruts against Andrea’s thigh between her own, pressing up.

 

How has Andrea been hiding this body under office casual wear without anyone having a clue as to what’s underneath?

 

She’s certain she’s literally dripping by the time Andrea’s warm fingers slip under the band of her thong, pulling the scrap of material down her legs, but the instinctive reaction, to close her legs and look away, is interrupted as Andrea, settled at the foot of the bed, leans down, slips between her legs and hikes a thigh over each shoulder, hands bracketing her hips, and Margaret reaches down, threads fingers through the loose braid Andrea’s put her hair into and watches as the other woman close her eyes and eat her out as if she’s _starving_.

 

Later, bone-tired, Andrea collapsed against her, a hand on her breast and very close to falling asleep, Margaret realizes it’s been much too long since she’s been with anyone and that a fake marriage to Andrea, to a woman who cares about her and can make her come too many times to keep count in one night, is no longer looking half-bad.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

She learns that Andrea takes her coffee black with one sugar—the polar opposite of a latte—spends an hour minimum after work at the gym, prefers Thai food to Chinese, reads more than she watches television, sleeps in until noon on the weekends, and cries when she’s happy.

 

The latter she’d learned on their wedding day, and realized again today.

 

Margaret extricates herself from Andrea’s slack embrace, walks over to her walk-in closet and picks out a pair of calf-length yoga pants, a sports bra and panties, shirt, and sneakers. It’s only to go down the street, and she grabs her keys and wallet and Gunner on his leash and slips out of her apartment.

 

She comes back and settles on the bed next to Andrea, puts the coffee holder and bag of hipster artisanal croissants she likes so much down on the bedside table and leans over her, lays a hand on her elbow and kisses her shoulder.

 

“Coffee’s going to get cold,” Margaret says quietly, and Andrea groans, rolling over.

 

They eat in bed, sitting cross-legged and facing each other, and it’s only when they’ve finished eating that Margaret gets up, slips out and returns with a small wrapped package and Gunner following her, nails clicking on the hardwood.

 

“Is it my birthday?” Andrea asks, an eyebrow raised in amusement as Gunner settles into a dog bed in the corner of the room after a sniff of the take-away bag. “That’s probably one of the first things they’re going to ask us, you know.”

 

“No,” Margaret retorts playfully. “Just open it.”

 

She learns, too, that Andrea is the type to slip her finger under the edge of the wrapping paper, opening it up with minimal tearing, watches as Andrea turns over small black desk nameplate, _Andrea Paxton_ inscribed in white and smaller, underneath that, _editor_.

 

“Bob’s old office,” Margaret explains, nodding towards it, Andrea’s eyes suspiciously shiny as she holds onto it. “Decent view. Not as good as mine, but it’ll do,” Margaret throws out, a joke because she’s never been good at tears, either. “Your name’s already on the door,” Margaret explains, but she _knows_ Andrea cries and the last place to cry is work—better a surprise at home than in front of coworkers. But Margaret swallows, ulterior motive probably crystal clear, and offers, “But you can put this on your desk here, if you’d like.”

 

They’ve done everything backwards and some of it for the wrong reasons, at least in the beginning, but now there are Andrea’s clothes in her closet and her papers on the dinning room table and the scent of her in her sheets, the two of them falling asleep together most nights, and Margaret _likes_ it, more than she ever thought she could, and shifts a bit, knows she’s asking too may things at once and hanging on all of them for a reaction.

 

The way Andrea grins, teary, and reaches out to kiss her quiet answers them all.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
